


Silverite

by HardingHightown



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Choking, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Femdom, Oral Sex, Queening, Sub!Blackwall, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardingHightown/pseuds/HardingHightown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill that grew. Blackwall sometimes craves a fight to go along with sex. Siba Cadash does not mind that at all. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silverite

Silverite does not rust, barely shows scratches. It glistens in the sunlight and is used to vanquish the darkest of enemies. It is a metal of sacrifice, for noble heroes. Heroes the likes of which they are not. Perhaps that’s why he chose it as their word.

It is roughly a year since the fall of Corypheus, around three years of them being together. Intimately together, that is. Three years since he was revealed as Thom Rainier and stood before her throne. _You said you had no love for me. I won’t believe that you meant it._ Those had been his words. In truth, she meant it well enough.

She had little love for what little bits he’d offered her, up until then. She had little love for how defensive he was, how many walls he put in place. She had little love for the way he made her feel back then, the constant indecision gnawing at her. He’d said it was because she was too good for him, but it gave her no respite from her fears, from her belief that he was ashamed of them, of her. If he was noble deeds and a wish to do what was right, she was back alley beatings and a need to survive. If he was stoicism and resolve, she was flashing anger and bare mistakes. So many mistakes. He was hidden, when she was there, open. He came before her to be judged. Everybody else had been judging her from the start.

What she had wanted was all of those pieces of him, good and bad. The noble deeds, the strong body, the kind smile to those less fortunate, the laughter in the tavern and the dirty jokes, the fucking filthy dirty talk, the anger, the rage at the world and its injustice, the pain he carried… and this. The darkest part. The part he’d kept hidden for the longest.

He’d told her a few times of Markham, but usually with a clipped tone and a change of subject. But recently more had slipped out in aftercare, when he lay spent and trembling in her arms. He’d told her a rare piece of the truth when he’d mentioned the Grand Tourney (a terribly revealing lack of control over his lies, she thought), mentioning the arrogance of himself as a young man, but there was more, she knew there was more. He stuck for so long on the negative, the arrogance, the inexperience, that he’d forgotten the other side, the side she sees now.

He fucking loves to be hit by women.

“What’s your word, Rainier?” she asks, stripping away her shirt to match him. They are both in their smalls now, her breasts still bound, the fire in the hearth the only light in the room. It has been a long day, a hard day, Orlesian politics elbowing their way into Skyhold. Into their home. She is tired in mind but agitated in body, and she can tell he feels the same, his shoulders hunched down, his colour drained. A long day of snide remarks and reminders of his weakest moment.

“Silverite.”

She stands before him, and it’s ludicrous really. She’s no towering warrior woman. Barely four foot tall as sure as he stands closer to six, but she holds his gaze, taking a step around him to gauge her next move. He never breaks the contact, does not move, the firelight highlighting the lines of his body, the outline of his already hard cock beneath his smalls.

“And tell me,” she continues as she circles behind him, closer, able to see the sweat starting to form on his skin, “What are you to do if your mouth is full? If you can’t take air to speak?”

She can see him swallow hard as she comes around again to face him. There is a flush on his cheek as he replies.

“Beat whatever is free against the floor three times.”

“Good. Are you ready?”

Even after they have danced this dance so many times before, she expects him to stop her before they start, to break, to cry, to carry her to bed and softly make love to her, holding her tight in his arms, but that is not them. It has never been them.

“I am.”

So she gives him what he wants.

“Get on your knees.”

Some days, that is how he wants it. He sinks to his knees and stays silent as he can as she slaps his face hard, bites his lip bloody, calls him a liar and a coward and makes him rut against her leathers for release. Today, it does not seem that is his play.

“On your knees, Rainier.”

He gives her nothing. So be it. The game today, she realises, is to take it by force.

Her first hit is with the heel of her palm straight into his chest, knocking the wind right out of him and forcing him to his knees. He gasps for breath, looking up at her as he steadies himself with one hand, his eyes brimming with water. She grips him by his long loose hair and pulls, bearing his neck, seeing his eyes flash in the firelight. He has never looked more beautiful.

“You come in front of me and think you can best me.” The words fall out of her mouth, unplanned, grating against her teeth. “You think you can outwit me. You think I don’t see straight through you. Murderer.”

She tugs his hair once more, fingers winding deeper into the knots. He growls thickly, his eyes fixed on her even as his head is snapped back. He says nothing still. Not moving. So she continues to push.

“You’d best yield-”

He has her on her back in an instant, her hand still in his hair. He pins her to the floor with one, broad hand across her collarbone, and ancestors she swears she forgets his strength every time, the sheer mass of the man, the way the muscles in his arms flex as he pushes so hard she can feel herself struggle to breathe. He’s rubbing his cock against her leg too. Rutting against her like a beast already, his breath starting to catch slightly, running ragged through his moist lips. She could kiss him then, pull those soft lips to hers with her hand on the back of his head, hold him sweetly and let him enter her gently on her back, look in to his eyes and whisper a thousand sweet words as he rocked into her. But she won’t.

“Yield,” he whispers, almost against her lips. And again, closer….

“Yield.”

She answers by spitting at him, kicking one of his legs from beneath him, timing it just right to slip away from the grasp of his faltering hand and, using his hair to pull herself up, sitting square on his back as he falls to the floor. She knows she will not be enough weight to keep him down, so she grabs his shield arm and twists it behind his back, delighting in the cry of pain that comes from him.

It is a short victory.

She always underestimates his strength. He pulls his arm back almost effortlessly, throwing her in front of him, her skin burning against the floor as she goes. She pushes the pain down, getting to her feet in one move. If she is to win, and she must, then she will have to tire him.

They stand together, looking at each other. His stance is low, grounded, his shoulders broad, breath heaving, a sheen of sweat lighting the black curls on his chest. She stands on the balls of her feet, almost bouncing, ready to go.

“Make your move, Rainier.”

Her voice is deeper than she thought it would be, and she realises her breath is as heavy as his. She feels no tiredness, but can feel the slick in her smalls even from her tiny movements. The anticipation is dizzying.

He makes a lunge for her, and she rolls out of his way, letting him crash into the side table that had been behind her, the silverware clattering on the stone. He looks over his shoulder at her, long hair untamed like a hillsman, and she can’t wait for him to try again.

He does, this time slower, and she catches his side with a firm slap as he passes, enjoying the crack of her hand and the soft sound of indignation he makes as it spurs him to try again immediately, and again, and again, every pass making him slower, more frustrated, and then she hits him with a closed first this time, knocking the wind out of him again.

He is on his knees, and she grabs his throat, forcing him off balance and flat on his back with a dull thud as his head meets the stone, she slaps his face hard with her other hand, before running her tongue over the line of his throat as she straddles him. She does not ask him this time.

Her hand is still by his throat as she presses herself against his cock, the hard line of it rubbing against her clit through the material of their smalls. He arches up against her, panting as she reaches between them, pulls his cock free and pushes it past the fabric she still wears.

She’s already stretched herself out, knowing that she’d take him like this, knowing that it would be worth his wide eyes and deep, full, unashamedly wanton moans as she straddles him and takes him into the hilt in only three long thrusts. When he’s inside her fully, she reaches up both hands, stretching her body to wrap them both around his neck, thumbs tight in his windpipe as she grinds down on him.

She is relentless in pace, riding him hard as she can as her hands grasp his neck, wondering at the shade of the skin of his face, the way his body twitches up and meets her thrusts.

“You knew it would end like this,” she finds herself breathing, voice hoarse and uneven as she felt him hit that spot inside her with the slightest adjustment of their position. “You knew you’d be mine. Look at you, little choke-slut.”

She pushes harder as she feels his thrusts meeting hers, becoming more erratic. He won’t last and it’s because of her, because of what she gives him, and she doesn’t know whether its that, the heat from the fire, or the angle of the thrusts, but the whole world feels dizzy and close.

“I’m going to let you come in me, and every time you come after this, you’ll be thinking of my tight cunt. Isn’t that-”

 _Glorious._ He finally releases with his back arched straight up from the floor, one hand reaching to her hip to grab as he finishes, thrusting through in short, sharp jerks as she lets his neck go, marveling as he splutters for breath and his neck fades from puce to pink, his eyes weeping. He lies there, panting, the hand on her hip softening to stroke at her waist.

“Cadash-”

“We’re not done yet.”

She climbs up his body, finally shrugging away her smalls, taking the time now to claim his mouth in a rough, deep kiss, before moving further up, planting a foot each side of his head and lowering herself to him.

“Clean me up.”

He laps at her, cleaning his own seed from her without hesitation, his tongue entering her slightly before licking up and circling her clit. She reaches up and undoes her breast band finally, throwing it away with one hand before gripping his head, one hand on each side of his temples as she grinds against his face, his own hands cupping her arse, gripping into her as he works her, before one hand snakes around to pinch at her nipple hard. His eyes are locked on to her as his tongue flicks, and she can’t break his gaze, not until she starts to feel her own release coursing through her as she bucks wildly against his face, finally coming with a cry from so deep inside her, her vision blurring, his hands supporting her waist the first thing she notices as she comes back down.

They are still there, for a moment, before she rolls off him, lying by his side. He whispers her name again, full of longing and thanks, his voice full of emotion. She entwines one finger with one of his, a small contact, but enough, as the words fall from her mouth:

“I love you.”

Words that seemed so difficult now slip from her with ease as she sits up, running her fingers softly over his beard, tracing down his torso, making note of the bruises, the old scars, the new. She will bathe with him and run oils through his tangled hair, she will sit with him by the fire quietly and take him to her bed. She will sleep next to him through the nightmares, and know that she means it when she says those words. She knows that it is true. That it will last.

 

Silverite does not rust, barely shows scratches. It glistens in the sunlight and is used to vanquish the darkest of enemies. It is strong, so strong, and cleaves through all it comes in contact with, shining through all darkness. Through all horrors, it remains. It is a metal of sacrifice, for noble heroes, and in this moment it suits them just fine.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt: "I always headcanon that Thom Rainier craves physical abuse from Cadash as repentance for his crimes. That doesn't mean that Blackwall won't lash out and punch her back. Hair pulling, biting lips open, open hand face slaps and closed fist body punching. All carefully negotiated beforehand, obviously, but definitely not nice. They both love it that way."


End file.
